Under the Jeweled Sky (22 page)

Mrs. Nayar's hands flew to her face, an outward rush of joy spilling from her as she threw her arms around the unexpected visitor. “Miss Sophie!” She squeezed her hard before shouting into the house: “Salil! Miss Sophie is here! Salil!” Sophie felt the bag pulled from her hands, Mrs. Nayar grasping her arm and heaving her in through the door. “The doctor not here. He at the clinic. Come, we go now!” She tugged at Sophie's sleeve. “He will be so pleased to see you. Where is husband?”

“It's just me, I'm afraid,” Sophie said.

“Why you not call before?”

“I wanted to it to be a surprise.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Nayar laughed. “He will have
big
surprise!”

“How is Dad?”

“The doctor is very fine, miss. He is always talking about you and telling us that you marry burra sahib with big job in important matters. We are all so happy for you and wishing you would come soon. The doctor was very proud. He put big notice in all the newspapers, even in the
Times
of
India
! Dr. G. J. M. Schofield of Iona, Ootacamund, announces proudly the marriage of his daughter Miss Sophie to important mister so-and-so in London! He was making sure everyone will know that his daughter is doing so well in making the excellent marriage! We have visitor coming from far away to give you congratulations, but I tell him you no live here, you live Delhi!”

“Miss Sophie!” The cook thundered into the hallway, crashing in like a buffalo from the back of the house, his face split into a beaming smile.

“Salil!” Sophie reached out to squeeze his hand fondly. “It's so nice to be back. Please,” she turned to Mrs. Nayar, “let's not disturb the doctor. I'll stay here and get settled and we shall surprise him when he gets back from the clinic.”

Mrs. Nayar looked disappointed for a moment, then exchanged words with Salil, a rapid fire of harsh dialect that Sophie had never quite managed to get to grips with. “OK,” she conceded. “I shall bring you some tea and Salil will make special supper for celebration.”

“You want me to make gunpowder chicken?”

“Oh goodness, no. I'm not sure my constitution is up to one of your famous baptisms of fire tonight,” Sophie said tactfully. Salil had an iron-plated palate and, if left to his own devices, would happily throw in enough chilies to kill an elephant.

“Gunpowder chicken?” Mrs. Nayar tore into him, wagging her finger in his face. “You want to give Miss Sophie nightmares? You will not be making gunpowder anything. Make tea. Not masala chai. Proper English tea with boiled milk.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Nayar. I'll take it in the doctor's study.”

Pulling off her gloves, Sophie wandered into her father's private room, dominated by the big mahogany desk set into the bay window overlooking the garden, its surface scattered with untidy papers beneath the usual clutter of medical odds and ends, a bone-handled patella hammer, the top half of a steel otoscope, a blue-rimmed enamel kidney bowl filled with rubber bands. The wedding photograph she had sent by airmail six months ago as summer broke over England sat among it all in a silver frame, the same frame that had once held a picture of her parents on their own wedding day, standing stiffly side by side outside a church vestibule.

Sophie perched herself comfortably on the edge of the desk and looked out of the window, loosening the silk scarf tied around her neck, her free hand wandering to the old black and white cat that lay snoozing in her father's chair. “Hello, Poocha,” she whispered. The cat half opened one lazy eye and curled into her fingers, purring.

Outside, the garden lay shrouded in the permanent mist that veiled the hilltops of the Nilgiris during the winter months, lending it a dreamlike quality, trees appearing and disappearing through the milky-white haze. Sophie had spent a great deal of time in that garden, recovering slowly under the protective bough of the jacaranda tree, heavy with lilac-blue blossoms, watching from the silvered teak planter's chair as Salil tended to his kitchen garden while Mr. Nayar huffed and puffed up and down with the old rotary lawn mower. Salil had a gift for nurturing tender seedlings, and liked nothing better than to harvest a fine dish of freshly plucked vegetables for the supper table, setting it down amid grand claims of how it had all been growing quite happily while they had breakfasted that morning.

Poocha rolled on to his side and pushed his head into his paws, the pillow of the seat radiating warmth where his body had lain. Sophie left him in peace and went to the window, pulling back the lace curtain. The essence of her father filled the room, the musky scent of teak oil, the rich beeswax soaked thirstily into the wood-paneled walls, the sweet tang of the cigarettes he liked to smoke while fiddling with broken instruments he had no hope of ever repairing. It was as though Iona had absorbed some part of him, the part that he had needed to put down, to discard as no longer useful or necessary, and it weighed heavy in the fabric of the walls. The house had been built at the turn of the century by a one-time Scotsman who had gone on to a more permanent residence in St. Stephen's cemetery some twenty years ago. A pretty two-story building of dove-gray stone and smooth timbers set amid a silver-blue grove of fragrant evergreens and eucalyptus trees, it had taken them in kindly, and had seemed gladdened to have its fires lit once more by a family in need of shelter. The moment she first set eyes upon it, Sophie had let out an unexpected sigh. All at once grand yet quaint, it was everything she might have wished for herself had she been looking for a house of her own. From beneath a green shingled roof, the four bedrooms faced east, Swiss gables overlooking the deep ravine of the sharply falling valley, its dense forests filled with chittering wildlife. To the west of the house, where fewer windows looked out, the forest rose again, revealing clearings in the hillside here and there to make way for the picturesque houses that clung prettily to the steep landscape amid the woods, taking in the best of the views. Her father had chosen well, and it had felt like a sanctuary. A place to heal.

A small knock came from the open door. Salil, bearing a wooden tray, entered quietly and set it down on the table beside the fireplace where a single thick log crackled softly in the grate.

“I make you nice vegetable and butter sandwich,” he said, taking the poker and pushing the glowing wood back in the grate before throwing in another log from the basket. “It is so very nice for us in seeing you.” He straightened himself and grinned at her. “We are saying always, ‘When is Miss Sophie coming?' And now?” His head wobbled in satisfaction. “Now you are here.”

“Thank you, Salil. It is good to be back.”

“Please.” He indicated the tray, a small spray of pale primroses placed beside the teacup. “You tell me if you want something else.”

“This is lovely.” She sat beside the fire. “Really. I couldn't wish for anything more.”

• • •

The warmth from the hearth curled irresistibly around Sophie's travel-weary legs, wrapping her blissfully in its glow. She slipped off her shoes, giving in to temptation, and tucked her feet into the soft armchair, resting her head against the worn green leather, unable to resist the urge to close her eyes for a little while. It had been a long day.

The book slipped quietly from her fingers and fell silently into the pile of embroidered pillows scattered loosely around her, her face softened into sleep. For the first time in a long while, her rest was deep and untroubled, taking her far from the world in which she now lived, lifting her into the subtle realms of endlessness where all was well, all things revived. They were dancing, him whirling her around, her head thrown back and laughing. She had never felt so happy, so warm in his arms, lifted by the music, being swept along, the durbar hall empty but for them and the orchestra. She was weightless, her heart filled with love, gazing into his smiling face, his pale green eyes. She sighed in her sleep, wrapped in a warmth so delicious that it felt like heaven. Her father's voice came into her dream. They were out walking, trekking the gladed pathways through the forest, sunlight dappling through the shivering leaves, spots of bright light carpeting the forest floor beneath their feet. Her legs were complaining, tired from the dancing, her muscles aching. “Why didn't you call me?” he was saying. Her eyes opened.

“That's what I said!” Mrs. Nayar clucked from the hallway. “I said come, let us go to the clinic now, but she said not to worry the doctor!”

Dr. Schofield rushed in, coat half on, half off, one sleeve hanging untidily behind his back as he shrugged out of the tangle while Mrs. Nayar tugged at it. Sophie unfurled herself from the chair and pulled herself into a long stretch, smiling as she tried to stifle a satisfied yawn. She had been fast asleep and dreaming. She didn't remember what about.

“Hello, Dad,” she said, wandering carelessly into his hug, closing her eyes as they squeezed together.

“When did you get here?” he asked, chin resting on the top of her head.

“Couple of hours ago, I think. Fell asleep.”

“You wash for dinner.” Mrs. Nayar bumped past them, breaking their embrace, and threw another log into the grate.

• • •

The pitch black of the night outside threw reflections of the fire on to the dining room windows, where the shutters had been left open, moths and night insects bouncing off the glass, desperately making for the light. The ceiling had been painted, Sophie noticed, the awful oppressive nicotine brown now an airy off-white color that brightened the room up no end. There was something else different too, although it took a moment for her to pinpoint what it was.

“Where's the piano?”

“Chopped it up and used it for firewood.”

“No!” Sophie said.

“Yes, I did. And very satisfying it was too. Dreadful old thing. I got rid of all sorts after you'd gone. Not intentionally, of course. Just started doing a little sorting out one day, and the next thing I knew, half the house was standing out on the lawn.”

“Dad!”

“What? It's just a lot of old junk when you think about it, all this stuff we drag about with us. I don't even know where half of it comes from. It just wears you down after a while. There's a lot to be said for having as little as possible. You can just up and away without giving it a second thought.”

“Suffering from wanderlust?”

“No fear,” he said. “Whatever for? I always wanted a little rural practice somewhere quaint; I just never imagined it would be in India. I'm quite happy to stay put, although I don't mind getting on a train now and then when the fancy takes me. You really should have let me come up to Delhi to welcome you.”

“We wanted to get settled first. You know how it is.”

“I wouldn't have minded a bit. It's been a long time, and I've missed you.”

“I've missed you too,” she said. Oh, how she had missed him and longed to see him, but she was a wife now, and her first duty was to her husband, and there had always been something to get in the way whenever she had tried to make the arrangement. Lucien had finally declared that if it was that important to her, she should go on her own, for he was far too busy. She would not say anything to her father or tell him of her doubts.

Perhaps she and Lucien were not so well suited after all. She had come to realize that they had nothing in common, apart from the India connection. Or perhaps it was because they had come here that she was having such trouble with her adjustment to married life. It was not what she had hoped for. It felt artificial, as though she were spending most of each day pretending to be something or somebody that she was not. The persona she presented was an invention, and she wore it like a heavy overcoat drenched with guilt. Sophie looked at her father, and wondered how long it had been before he knew his marriage was a mistake.

“Must have taken you ages to get down from Delhi,” he said.

“Don't be silly. I flew in.” Sophie helped herself to a little more of Salil's home-made pickle. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until the lid came off the rice dish, releasing a delicious vapor of saffron and fried onions. “One of the perks,” she said, adopting a self-mocking air as she tapped the teaspoon sharply against the side of her plate. How nice it was to dine so casually, her shoes kicked off, her father resting an elbow on the table whenever he felt like it. “I got a lift on one of the regular runs from Delhi to Bombay, then picked up a flight into Coimbatore, which was a little hair-raising, to say the least. Pickle?”

“Thank God I didn't know about that in advance,” Dr. Schofield said, taking the dish from her and setting it carelessly aside. “Do you know, a plane went down in February on that same route, killing everyone on board? One of the Air Force's. A de Havilland, I think. It took off from Coimbatore heading for Mangalore and never arrived. The weather was so bad they couldn't even send out a search party. It was four days before they found the wreckage. Swimming in leeches, apparently.”

“How gruesome.”

“It's certainly not the way I would choose to go.” He topped up their wine glasses.

“Any news of anyone?”

“Not much you don't already know about, I expect. The Rippertons went to Canada to be nearer to their son. I don't think it's worked out particularly well. Rip started to lose his faculties soon after they arrived. From what I can gather, I think he's become pretty senile. They always send a card at Christmas, so we shall have to see what Fiona has to say about it this time. I hope they're all right. Fiona blamed it squarely on the move. She sounded quite cut up about the whole situation.”

“Poor Fi.” Sophie shook her head. “I wish I had been kinder to her when I was young. She so went out of her way to be nice to me. I used to hide from her.”

“I know.” Her father smiled. “So did I.”